Papoe

Exposure

"We regret to inform you that we have had a lice exposure."

I reread the email and thought, "No fucking way." 

The girls were not infected, at least not yet, but if the little nits take hold, I have a hard road ahead of me.

I think an army of animals could live beneath her curls. I checked her scalp to the best of my ability (holding fistfuls in each hand, trying to keep her still) and I washed today's outfits and jackets, but now we wait.

I feel itchy.

Hair-tastic, take two

Jocelyn and Aja’s daycare has designated today as "Crazy Hair Day." In honor of this special day, I had to share a post that I wrote in March of last year. Since that time I have learned a thing or two, but we continue to struggle (the hair and I).

I am a white mother. This is an obvious fact seeing that I am white and I am a mother. But my husband is black. What this really means is that my daughter Jocelyn has a lot of hair—a LOT of hair. And it is not like mine. It is curly. Beyond curly. With twists, knots, u-turns, and dreaded dreadlocks. I knew when she was born with a full head of hair that it would not stay straight. It began to curl when she was two months old and it never stopped. Don’t get me wrong; I love it. She got the hair I always wanted. When I was twelve, I begged my mom to let me get a perm. Specifically, a spiral perm. Because that was the only kind of perm that any self-respecting girl wanted in 1987. My mom told me no, and then proceeded to bring me to a hair salon so that the stylist could tell me all the reasons why my mother was right. I don’t remember how exactly I responded, but I know that my 12-year-old self would have seethed with anger and frustration. My hair was thin and straight. It was dull and lacked the ability to hold a curl. I was doomed. But Jocelyn’s hair is four shades of special. As it has grown and shaped itself into a min-afro, Khary has mentioned again and again my need to learn how to plait hair. I complained that if I could just get her to sit long enough I could possibly do something with it, but it is just so curly. How do I comb through it? His response: “you better get some grease and a comb!” That is not helpful. But, I did find a magical leave-in conditioner (Mixed Chicks rocks!), which keeps her curls curly. It doesn’t, however, help me to keep her still enough to put her hair back up in little puffs. Last night I tried to bribe her with Sesame Street and my brush (she finds it fascinating) so that I could comb out the dreadlocks that have formed above each ear. I got one straightened out to a silky frizz before she arched her back and began to flop. Then she cried. Surprisingly she did not wake her sister up. Fifteen minutes of our back and forth and the only thing that woke Aja up was the sound and vibration of her own farts. I gave up on the styling session and retreated to the couch.

 Crazy Hair Day = Mommy's Day Off

Most mornings Aja wakes up looking like Diana Ross. The one morning I want to let her sing her greatest hits, and her hair fell a little flat. Jocelyn, a.k.a Chaka Khan, is feeling the moment.

 

If we didn’t have YOU we would have moved on up to that penthouse in the sky

Six years ago when Khary and I were hunting out new digs, we looked at a one-bedroom penthouse overlooking the city. It had hardwood floors and a spacious kitchen. It might have had a fireplace. What I remember most was the deck. It was equal in size to the apartment itself—one that screamed: When does the party start? The penthouse was beautiful and unreasonable and unique and personally created for someone that didn’t believe in sexual reproduction. We laughed at the grandiose nature of having wall-to-wall windows that no one can see in, and the space to entertain a party of twenty-five plus on a rooftop.

Three years later we had the ability to rent the party palace but there was a baby in the belly and we needed practicality.

It may not be a penthouse—it may not even be clean—but we’ve got ourselves a little apartment under the clouds. They have yet to reach preschool but tomorrow (it seems) the girls will be heading off to college. I have imagined having a Claire Huxtable moment, were one of them to say that she wants to change her mind and drop out of school. “Change it back! After all that money we spent sending you to Princeton? Sondra, you owe US seventy-nine thousand six hundred and forty-eight dollars and twenty-two cents! And I want my money NOW!”

There are days when I want the view from my imaginary penthouse back. As if I ever had it in the first place.

But then there are the Mother’s Days. I just celebrated my third and I was reminded (again) how much I love my girls. I can always count on cuddles from Jocelyn, but it was the most precious and beautiful gift from Aja that stood out: she sat completely still while I combed her hair out after a bath. This may not seem like a lot but her usual response is to run away and, if caught, bend over backwards and screech as though I were trying to pluck out her eyeballs with the tip of the comb. And this is the child with the more-manageable hair. Khary thinks it was the Yo Gabba Gabba that was playing that calmed her, but I believe that she knew it was what I wanted. She certainly didn’t cooperate on my birthday—going to daycare without even a half-assed top pony (no half-assed pony equals mixed baby afro).

I try to appreciate the small moments so that the bigger ones (the ones that involve lots of tantrums and No’s and time-outs), however temporary, don’t shape the meaning of the day. Last night, after returning from a day in Santa Cruz, the girls were hyped up on chocolate and Nana-time. A half-hour after putting them to bed there was still a medley of conversation/screams echoing from the girls’ room. I paid little attention until I realized what Jocelyn was saying.

“Okay Aja? One, two, three, four…lay down Aja. Lay down! Okay? One, two, three, four…lay down Aja! You need to lay down.”

Aja just laughed. Were she able, she would sleep standing up.

Virgins and Valentines

It's Valentine's Day. What better time to talk about virgins. Afterall, I am a virgin. Now, I have obviously had sex enough times to birth two children, so I'm not talking about the time I spend in between the sheets. I'm talking about harvesting. Gardening. Getting your hoe down.

Recently we realized that our girls have finally grown enough to hang out on our small patio. No one will fall over, and only one of them will eat dirt. So we thought that it was about time to take another look at our empty pots and make something happen.

Enter, the Virgin Harvest, a lovely little get together (of sorts), organized by dig this chick, one of my new favorite blogs/bloggers. My gardening prowess would probably have stayed hidden, but this organized chaos has helped to bring it all to the surface (or at least to the blog).

Okay, so I didn't actually do any of the planting. I was just the photographer. But this is a family journey, and we are going to try our damndest to keep these flowers and arugula alive.

In other virgin news, I cut Jocelyn's hair for the first time. A mullet had managed to find it's way on the back of her head, and I had to do my motherly duty and get rid of it. I've been wanting to have her wear her hair down for the first time in I don't know how long. Let's just say that this white mama has come a long way from the early days.

Before

After

Happy Valentine's Day!

Time, reading, and marching for babies

I finished a book yesterday. I could probably end my post right there because it was that monumental. I took advantage of the fact that the entire house has been sick all week; I put on Sesame Street to catch the attention of the little ones, and we all lounged around. I got sucked into the last 50 pages [The Girl Who Played With Fire, if you were wondering], and I read read read until the book was closed for good.

There is another meaning to this madness that is time: my girls are growing up. It’s an amazing thing to see them play and take care of one another. Jocelyn will go out of her way to pat Aja on the back if she’s coughing, and then Aja will walk over and pull Jocelyn’s curls. But then they hug and they fight some more and they love one another, and all the while I can lie on the couch and read my book and not have to referee. Well, for a moment anyway. Come noon the heads flip around, eyes open wide, and they descend upon me. Mommy, mommy, mommy!

I feel like I’ll never quite be able to catch up with how fast the girls grow up. But I’ll enjoy the time I have to read.

In other news, I’m celebrating Aja and her mighty milestones by participating in the March of Dimes, March for Babies walk on April 30^th. We’ve put together Team Aja, to honor the little miss thing and the fact that she’s kicking those “1lb 15oz” stats to the curb and moving her way up onto the percentage chart. Last we checked she finally made it to 1% for weight, and I couldn’t have been more proud. She’s at 85% for her head, so it’s really just a matter of growing into her noggin.

If you are interested in donating to our team and the March of Dimes*, you can click on the badge in the upper right corner, or just click this link. We know firsthand what it’s like to endure a premature birth and I want to do everything that I can to make sure no other family has to go through what we went through. I'm grateful that I can now joke about Aja's progress. She's 17 months old and thriving. But many other babies and their families are not as lucky. Every dollar counts, and we would be so honored for your help.

For those of us that took a break from exercising after having children, six miles is no joke. To compensate for our lack of energy, we’ve decided to train for this event. The first order of business: jumpsuits. I’m thinking these will look good on the girls.

Stay tuned for training updates…

*The mission of the March of Dimes is to improve the health of babies by preventing birth defects, premature birth, and infant mortality.